Gods stitched up

Max von Oppenheim in his tent during the Tell Halaf expedition, 1929

Baron Max von Oppenheim (1860-1946) was primarily a diplomat and a secret agent, a womanizer and a bonvivant, an Oriental traveler as well as an amateur archaeologist and ethnographer, and only then a photographer. Yet he has his place here among the photographers of the East, because the 13 thousand photos made by him and by the hired photographers accompanying him are a unique documentation of the Middle East between the turn of the century and the two world wars.

Developing the photos of the Tell Halaf expedition, 1911

Oppenheim, who was partly from a Jewish banking dynasty converted to Catholicism and partly from a Prussian Protestant patrician family, in 1886 traveled through Morocco where he was completely fascinated by the East. On his father’s request he returned to lay down his legal exams, but in 1892 he moved to Cairo. He learned fluent Arabic and developed a close relationship with the Bedouin tribes among which he lived for a long time and about whom he wrote the first important historical work. Kaiser Wilhelm II, who desperately needed diplomats with local knowledge to his Eastern plans, employed him at the German consulate in Cairo where he worked for 14 years.

Max von Oppenheim (second from left) at the German consulate in Cairo, 29 November 1906

Oppenheim, who recognized the importance of holy war, made great diplomatic efforts to persuade the Bedouin tribes to a jihad against the British and French invaders on the side of the Germans. For this purpose he published since 1914 an Arabic journal entitled El Jihad, but even before that he traveled through the Middle East to personally convince the nomadic chieftains. He traveled two thousand kilometers in ten years in Mesopotamia and Syria, in many places being the first European. His biggest adversary was another archaeologist, his personal acquaintance, the equally excellent Arabist Thomas Edward Lawrence who, known as Lawrence of Arabia, finally managed to gain the Arabs to the British side.

Max von Oppenheim, “El Baron” in the tent of Ibrahim Pasha, 1899

It was during his Mesopotamian journey, more specifically in 1899 in Viranşehir, in the tent of Ibrahim Pasha, head of the nomadic Kurdish troops in Ottoman service that he heard for the first time about the mysterious stones hiding under earth near to the Circassian village of Ras el-Ain. Local treasury searchers had tried to dig them out, but then the village was hit by cholera which they considered as the vengeance of the dead disturbed. So they did not continue  the excavation, and they even concealed the location from Oppenheim who visited the place shortly afterward.


The German archaeological interest in the Middle East was intensifying just around that time, after the journey of Kaiser Wilhelm II to the East in 1898. The first excavations in Babylon by the Deutsche Orient-Gesellschaft started in 1899 while Felix von Luschan opened up important Late Hittite and Aramaic sites in south-west Turkey. The purpose of state-funded excavations was on the one hand to highlight the German presence in the Middle East and on the other hand to fill with spectacular material the recently erected representative royal museums in Berlin.


Oppenheim managed to clear up only by 1911 that the stones are hidden under Tell Halaf. * He started to explore them with a well-equipped expedition, 1000 camels, 500 Bedouin workers, expert archaeologists, a doctor, cook and photographer as well as with twenty-one tons of expedition gear, wagons and eight hundred meters of rail track.




The excavations going on for three years had important results. Under Tell Halaf they found the Aramaic city of Guzana, * also mentioned in the Bible, which around 1000 B.C., during the decline of the surrounding great powers lived its heyday. They excavated the massive citadel of the city as well as many monumental sculptures: stone sphinxes, lions, idols and ruler portraits




The excavations were ended by the First World War. Oppenheim could return to the site only in 1927 when Syria was already a French mandate. In spite of his German citizenship he was able, as a true diplomat, to convince the French officials to allow him to transport the findings to Berlin. By that time only the stone sculptures remained on the site, the golden jewels disappeared. According to the knowledge of Matthias Schulz who resumed the story in the Spiegel, they somehow found their way to Istanbul where they are supposed to exist, but when the curators of the recently opened Tell Halaf exhibition wanted to borrow them, the Turkish officials gave only evasive answers. However, the statues weighing several tons were transported by rail to Aleppo from where they traveled by ship to Berlin. There another ordeal awaited them: the director of the royal collections would not let them into the museum out of jealousy. Therefore Oppenheim purchased a disused factory in Berlin’s Charlottenburg district where he opened the Tell Halaf museum.



“This is my beautiful Venus” said Oppenheim to Agatha Christie
whom he personally guided through the exhibition

After the introduction of the Nuremberg Laws in the middle of the 30s Oppenheim was officially considered “a half-breed of the first degree”, but his several political and financial connections always provided protection for him. What is more, in 1939, at the age of 78 he traveled for a last time to Syria, officially in order to carry out some final excavations in the site. The true purpose of the trip, however, is dubious as the costs were covered personally by Göring. Nevertheless, Oppenheim in a speech before Nazi leaders attributed the statues to the Aryan culture, so the collection was not nationalized, and it was even given public support.


Perhaps it would have been better were it nationalized, because then it would have been put in safety together with the other state collections at the beginning of the bomb raids. The building was hit by bombs in 1943, and the sculptures – as it was later counted – broke into 27,000 pieces. For almost sixty years they lied in the museum’s store as a scrap.



Ten years ago, in October 2001 the restoration of the sculptures, called by the Pergamon Museum “the ever largest restoration project” began. For ten years all day long the conservators were searching the pieces fitting together among the scrap laid out in the 600 square meters large room. The missing parts were replaced with plaster.







The 30 monumental stone sculptures restored this far can be seen on the exhibition of the Pergamon Museum since the end of this January until August. Then they probably go on a European tour. Until then, we will visit them if we can, so that we can give a first-hand report on them.











At the same time also the more than sixty photo albums of Oppenheimer are exhibited in the Museum für Fotographie in Berlin until 15 May. We also want to report on this exhibition. Until then, all the photos of every album can be seen in the Arachne image bank. Unfortunately for non-subscribers only in such small size as we have compiled the selection below.


Basket


Brumi was born five years ago in January, the first of eleven puppies. For her mother Vidra this was the first – and as we had to admit, the last – litter, so she almost had no milk, and I had to feed the puppies five times a day as I had done to Muska.


The kids were intended for our friends, but Brumi was born with such a severe dysplasia that we decided to keep her for ourselves. Our veterinarian told us that from the age of three she would gradually deteriorate and would finally die in great pain.


Brumi slept away yesterday morning, when the computer stopped short. At the age of five, without any deterioration and without pain, after having apparently prepared for it for weeks and having taken leave of the other dogs, with that peaceful final breathing out as newfoundlanders usually put down their head like “well, now everything is all right”.

We take leave of her and say thanks for her with the poem sent by Wang Wei at their birth.

PRIMERO se toma una mimbre,
y se la pone en agua, para que
pierda altanería, se haga dulce,
mandible, y tenga amor;
luego se la trenza como un sueño,
y, cuando ya está hecho el cesto,
puede ponerse en él la ropa blanca,
unas frutas rojas, doradas, o un gatito.
A veces crujirá en la noche;
pero así se hizo el mundo,
y así, a veces, se lamenta.
FIRST take a wicker and put it
in water so that it gets rid of its
arrogance, it becomes soft
and pliable, it fills up with love;
then braid it like a dream, and
when the basket is ready, you can
put in it the clean clothes, some
red and golden fruits, or the kitten.
Sometimes it will creak in the night
but this is how the world was made up
and this is how, sometimes, it complains.


Dubious quality


The post planned for this morning is still lingering on my computer which does not start. I have to  save my data and reinstall it. Instead, let me share a spontaneous praise received this morning by the Poemas del río Wang on the Dubious Quality blog:

Josh Eaves sent me a link to a terrific and interesting website called Poemas del río Wang, but I’ll be damned if I can really explain what it covers. Mainly, there are loads of beautiful photographs of both contemporay Russia and the Communist-era Soviet Union, but there's quite a lot more as well.

The reference to the Russian photos only means that Bill Harris is just scanning this part of the elephant: a month ago he would have probably seen it mainly as a Spanish travel blog. And in the inspiring space of computerlessness I also wonder whether I can explain what it covers.

A crack


I did cross by ferry from Europe to Asia, but at that time the proportion of beauty per second made it clear that I was crossing the border of two continents at a bargain price of forty euro cents. But with a tram?

Ideal cities



The question of the previous post on how an earlier generation of photographers wanted to present their Moscow was replied by Balázs Rafael by sending us a link to the following pictures published by English Russia. There you read that they show Moscow in the 60s, but English Russia, as usually, confounds everything without naming its sources. These pictures were dumped together from a number of sources, with a dozen of duplicates and with many buildings that did not exist before the 80s. Nevertheless, there is something common in the atmosphere of these images: in spite of their intentional representativeness they are more relaxed and more personal than, for example, the above “official” pack of twelve postcards on Moscow that were sold everywhere at that time.







The last motif leads over to the next series. If these images idealized Moscow as a well-arranged flower garden, the series by Valkorn rather follows a “flower on the ruin” ideal, much more characteristic of contemporary Russian photographers, which in the midst of devastation still tries to find the traces of a former beauty.





“We run a merry erotic room”






A third kind of the ideal city is when destruction itself becomes cozy and a source of beauty; to follow the horticultural metaphor, like some unique and marvelous underground vegetation. The photographer is afraid lest this should disappear as well, because then the impersonal and megalomaniac building blocks of the all-devouring construction business will occupy their place.










“The worst thing one can do with this city: to renovate it”